This isn't like the raves of yesteryear, when you'd follow convoluted instructions to a warehouse where you'd dance until the point of dehydration, pass out in a corner, wake up with a rash and eat the half—rotten oranges mysteriously delivered to the loading dock. No, this is parental consent and in some cases accompaniment.
Gunderson's lovely assistant unveils the Wheel of Mash—up, two spinning discs, each labeled with song titles, which audience members twirl to concoct a mash—up that he will mix on the fly. It's a nice little trick, but he didn't really bust out his A material—circuit—bent toasters, gloves equipped with thimbles that trigger samples. Still, much like the older gent with the ponytail beard and the young lad who looks like a cross between Lisa Bonet and Nikki Sixx, I am feeling it—really, truly feeling it.
A kid with braces and both arms loaded up with brightly beaded plastic bracelets approaches me with an apprehensive smile. "Are you rolling?" he asks me. No, no little one: I am high on life.